


I get knocked down

by Ryne



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryne/pseuds/Ryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin and Gwen get extremely, inadvisably drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I get knocked down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend of mine over on The Heart of Camelot. The title is from the song by Chumbawumba.

Gwen suffered a nervous breakdown about a month after her coronation, during a discussion on dresses, of all things. In a moment of clarity she wondered that the familiar topic distressed her rather than putting her at ease, but apparently it was this touch of her old life that put her over the edge. How she managed to keep it together long enough to excuse herself to her room, she’d never know; but the only reason she had done it was because she didn’t want to start a war with the barony of Wessex just because Lady Amina misinterpreted and thought she had disliked her choice in ribbons, because for all she knew bursting into tears was a declaration of hostile intent amongst nobility rather than a cause for concern. (It wasn’t.)

But she retreated to her room all the same, locked herself in, and was just settling down to have a nice, long cry when Merlin came hurtling in, making it halfway to the table before spotting her in her chair by the window and skidding to a halt. “Oh, Gwen, you’re in here. I was wondering who locked the door,” he said by way of greeting, which was odd, because she hadn’t heard him unlock it, and he wasn’t holding a key. “Arthur forgot his sword--” as if it wasn’t _his_ job to remember it -- “he wants to duel Sir Whatsisname -- Bertrand, from Wessex, and -- Gwen? What’s wrong?” he asked, because Gwen had begun to cry in earnest then, because it was only a duel now but she’d committed some great violation against the rules of dress-talking in the upper-class, and Arthur would be forced to fight him for real in the very near future, and then he’d die horribly and everyone would hate her and _she wasn’t ready to be queen, Merlin._

 “Okay, Gwen, calm down,” he said soothingly, touching her shoulder, because somehow he had understood everything she’d just said despite her blubbering. “First of all, I didn’t know there were any rules about talking about dresses. I thought you just kinda... made it up as you went along. Secondly,” he continued hastily when he saw that this wasn’t helping at all, “you haven’t started a war. I’m sure Lady Amina is worried about you, not charging off to her husband to complain that you offended her. And _thirdly_ ,” he said emphatically, making sure she was looking, “Arthur could take him blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back. Have you _seen_ him? No _way_ would Arthur be killed. And nobody hates you, Gwen, you’re a wonderful queen.”

 More incomprehensible blubbering, and Merlin started to look a little more out of his element. “Alright,” he said uncertainly, and then a little more firmly. “Alright. You need a break, Gwen -- _don’t_ you deny it. You need a break, and I’m going to help you. Forget Arthur’s sword -- I’ll make your excuses and then we’ll go off and have fun, just like old times, alright?”  

\- -o- -

 And so Gwen ended up back in her old house by the forge, waiting for Merlin to sort everything out and come back. Nothing had gone up for auction yet; she’d been too busy with her duties to see to it, and now she was glad, because that meant all of her furniture and clothes were still there, all the little touches of home that made her want to cry all over again. She couldn’t bear to be in this house as queen, and so she threw her crown into a drawer with her cooking knives and put on her favorite purple dress, and then sat back down at the table and cried some more.

 This was how Merlin found her when he returned, coming in without knocking as per his custom, and some distant portion of her brain wondered how he’d managed to open the door without dropping any of the jugs of wine he was carrying. But that little voice was drowned out by the fact that _he was carrying jugs of wine_ , so she sniffled and said, “What is this, Merlin?”

 “Gwaine suggested it,” Merlin replied, putting the jugs on the table and going to her cupboards to get cups. She snorted. “Hey, I thought so too -- but think about it. A lot of our old options are closed to us now...” he deliberately avoided saying _that you’re queen_ so as not to upset her further, but she heard it anyway, “and so I figured -- what’s a good way to unwind, that we can do in private, without people gossiping and making a fuss? And this seemed like the best option. And it’s not like you drink much at state dinners and such, because you have to be careful--” Again he cut himself short because it was still a sensitive subject, and continued on a different track. “Don’t worry, I didn’t mention any names to him. Now come on, Gwen,” he said, pouring her a generous glass and pushing it toward her. “Tell me everything.”

 And she did. She talked about the duties that had been thrust upon her and how inadequate she felt in the face of them; the amount of haggling it took to come to a decision in the council and how she counted it a victory if they listened to her at all (although Geoffrey of Monmouth remembered her counsel from the time of the Dorocha and was usually willing to hear her out -- but the other lot, she added witheringly, were worse than Agravaine, and missed Merlin flinching at his name); the erosion of her natural diplomacy because it was so difficult to deal with those bureaucratic old noblemen who didn’t approve of the commoner queen; the noblewomen who snickered behind their hands and whispered Lancelot's name as she passed; how many times she’d had to stop herself from getting up to serve food or light her own fire; how she didn’t feel a part of the noble class, yet she could no longer interact with the servants in the same way because there was a divide between them now; and above all how she felt as if she was disappointing Arthur because he’d trusted her once again, and she was letting him down because she couldn’t handle the pressure. 

 In the meantime Merlin nodded and poured wine for the both of them, until her words were spent and she was left staring into her cup, feeling slightly drunk already and waiting for Merlin to agree that she wasn’t fit to be queen and offer to spirit her away in the middle of the night, or at least sneak herbs into the meals of all those awful doubting nobles to give them incontinence for a week. She knew he had access to the proper herbs, and she wouldn’t put it past him.

 “Gwen,” he said instead, and he was looking at her so directly that she knew that he meant what he said. “You are a wonderful queen. The people _love_ you, Gwen. _Arthur_ loves you, and he trusts you, and that trust is completely deserved. There are very few people in the Five Kingdoms who could do what you’re doing, and _none_ of them could do it with as much grace and composure. I told Arthur, while you were gone, I told him that there is no one who would sacrifice more for Camelot or for him as you, and that is true, Gwen.” She thought she heard a hint of sadness in his voice, but then again, she had lost count of how many cups of wine he’d had because she’d been too busy counting her own, and so it was probably just the drink talking. “Believe me, Gwen,” he said, and this time his voice had an oddly prophetic quality to it. “You are destined to be queen.”

She felt goosebumps erupting on her skin, and stared at her friend until he smiled and changed the subject. 

\- -o- -

 Soon her melancholy was entirely forgotten, and she drank enough that she let Merlin perform another coronation, using his scarf as a crown and declaring her “Guinevere, Queen of Albion,” which was a word she’d never heard before but which sounded very nice indeed. The scarf-crown sat atop her head, the point flopping pathetically over her left eye until she twisted it at a rakish angle. He raised a toast to her, and she drank heartily and laughed, and realized that she hadn’t had this much fun in ages. She also hadn’t had this much to drink in ages, which certainly affected her tolerance. 

 Not that Merlin was faring much better.

 "I’da thunk -- thoooooouuuught,” corrected Gwen, “I’da thought that you’d be, ah. Better at this.” She gestured vaguely, though Merlin couldn’t see her from his current position under the table, where he’d fallen and stayed after Gwen had tried to whistle a tune from one of the feasts at which they had served together while Merlin attempted to dance a jig. But apparently, being “really good, I promise,” didn’t quite transfer when he was three sheets to the wind, and soon the wind had left his sails, the feeling had left his legs, and he had keeled over, leaving Gwen breathless with laughter.

 “Better at what?” he slurred from somewhere in the vicinity of her left chair leg, which made her think of how his limbs had gone all akimbo before he fell, which made her quite unable to explain properly because she was doubled over in laughter again. “Better at what,” he repeated, prodding her leg until she kicked at him, missed by a mile, and answered.

 “Y’know... Arthur tells me about all the time you spend at the tavern, so I’da thought you’d be better at... _jigging_.”

 “Ooh,” said Merlin. “Oh. That. Arthur thinks... heh.” His head poked up by her knee, and he was grinning like a loon. “Gwen, can you keep a secret?” he asked, looking pleased with himself.

 “‘Course I can,” Gwen said, taking a drink and then waving it around for emphasis, and if she splashed any on Merlin then he didn’t object. “I’m the _best_ secret-keeper in the _world_. I’ve never even told _aaaanyone, ever,_ about the time when Morgana--” But the name stopped her short as she remembered what it was like to have her as a friend and not an enemy, and Merlin must’ve felt it too because he was silent for a minute before prodding her again.

 “What’d she do, what’d she do?” he demanded, and Gwen stuck her tongue out and said, “I’m not gonna tell because I’m a _good secret-keeper_ , I _toldja_.” And this time she prodded _him_ in the neck until he flopped over out of her reach. “What doya want to tell me?”

 “I, uh...” Merlin said ponderously into the floor. “I don’t remember. Hah!”

 “Taverns!” said Gwen muzzily a few minutes later, the subject having floated out of the recesses of her memory that were currently drowning in wine.

 “Taverns! Yes! Secrets!” Merlin exclaimed, punching the air with the cup, crashing it into the underside of the table, and spilling most of its contents on himself. “Oop. But,” he continued, trying to drink it off his shirt, “you mustn’t tell anyone. _Especially_ Arthur.”

 “Right,” Gwen agreed, then kicked at Merlin’s belly. “Now _spill_.”

 “I did already,” he said mournfully, eyeing his empty cup. “And you shan’t make me again. But anyway. Aaaaanywaaaaay...” He rolled over to look at her again, pointing at her with the one finger that wasn’t trapped under his body. “Don’t tell Arthur, but I _never_ go to the tavern.”

 Gwen laughed like this was the funniest thing she’d heard all day, because it _was_ , and Merlin blinked at his wine, said, “Oh, I didn’t know I could do that,” and drained his brimming cup all in one go.

 “Then what do you do?” she asked, and Merlin started guiltily, looked round at her crown, and said, “ _Secrets_.”

 “What kind of secrets? Tell me,” she demanded.

 “Seeeecret secrets,” Merlin said decisively. “And disguises... lots of disguises. All the time. I toldja waaaay back then.”

 She vaguely remembered him in the stocks, and herself laughing at this strange country boy -- and then there was a surge of warmth in her chest that she hadn’t felt in ages -- which Merlin promptly killed by flopping pathetically about at her feet and groaning, “Gwen, don’t ever let me grow a beard.”

 “What?” she laughed, because the idea of Merlin with a beard was ludicrous.

 “Don’t let me. It’s stupid, and Arthur will know, and it’s stupid.”

 “Know what?” Gwen asked, and Merlin stilled. He didn’t answer her for a long time, and Gwen was shaking the last jug and wondering where all of it had gone when he finally said, “I need to show you something,” and sat up, banging his head on the table and cursing. 

 "Is it another jig?” giggled Gwen, pouring the last of the jug into her cup. “Because if it is, then the answer is _please_.”

 “Nooo,” Merlin said, nearly upending the table as he struggled to his feet. “Nooo, something better. Something _important_.”

 Gwen giggled again, because in her opinion Merlin was in no state to judge the importance of anything, but Merlin’s expression was serious and there was an odd, recklessly determined look in his eye. 

 “I'm a Dragonlord,” he announced, “and Gwen, we are going to _ride a dragon tonight_.” Gwen choked on wine and laughter as Merlin dragged her to her feet. “Come on, then,” he said with a wicked grin. “We’re going on an adventure!”

 And to Gwen’s absolute astonishment, they did.


End file.
